Chained Inspiration
by TheQueenofBooks1000
Summary: After a nasty breakup with the resident goth girl, Trent's life is slowly spiraling down. How is he going to cope? Is it going to get better? Trent-centric.


**I'm so depressed. Doesn't seem like it, but I am. Play time has gone on long enough and it's time for me to face the consequence in a few weeks. (Excuse the melodrama. It's not really anything bad, but I'm kind of upset about it.)**

**But still...enjoy the story, mi amigos. :)**

**DISCLAIMER: I DON'T OWN TOTAL DRAMA.**

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It was dark. The faint strum of a guitar was the only sign of life in the room.

Trent brushed the hair from his eyes and concentrated, his lips pulling into a frown. Taking a deep breath, he lifted his fingers and ran it down the strings of the instrument, squinting as he tried to play the perfect note.

He winced as the string flicked back and stung his raw fingers. For the first time, he glanced down at his hands and saw that the calloused tips of his thick fingers were bloody, the nails worn out. Well, using metal instead of nylon was definitely stupid. And how long has he been practicing, anyway?

Oh, right. For nearly a year. Seems like it was routinely thing, something that Trent used to despise, preferring the spontaneity of life in which the stuff that provided inspiration was far more diverse that just staring at the stupid cactus wallpaper that covered his room. Now, though, he couldn't see how he could despise something that was a constant in his life, something that he had gotten used to. It was always just eating, sleeping, and browsing the Internet, though the chief of his days were admittedly spent with practicing and trying to come up with new songs.

And how the hell was that working out for him? The only lyrics written down on his notebook that didn't sound completely terrible was called, "Nine," and it was about...nine. Nothing else.

For God's sake, he was practically a recluse.

Letting out a frustrated sigh, Trent lifted the strap of the guitar from his neck and carefully laid it down next to him on the couch. Man, he needed to take a break. He couldn't just go on living like some deranged moron.

He couldn't believe that his life had come to _this. _He was usually the cool guy, the one with the calm and practical attitude (unless, of course, the number nine is involved, in which case he can be a bit crazy).That was who he used to be. And now...well, he was not really sure of _who _he was anymore.

That was it. He needed to get his shit together, and that was final.

The musician firmly stood up from his seat of nearly a year, feeling a bit unsteady, but determined. After he had wrapped band-aids around his sore fingers, he decided that he was going to take a ride around town.

He exhaled. Yeah, that was what he needed. He was hardly twenty-five, after all. He was still a relatively young dude, and young dudes don't sit on couches all day, acting like senile old men. He needed to cut loose. Dance a little, get some booze. Hook up with girls.

At the last thought, his fingers unconsciously slipped from the knob of his front door.

He laughed bitterly. Yeah, right. The main reason of his current predicament was still because of Gwen, wasn't it? He wasn't about to fuck himself with denial anymore. He had long accepted the fact that ever since Gwen fled his apartment in tears nearly a year ago, clutching a suitcase haphazardly packed with her belongings, something inside him died. Whatever the hell it was, he wasn't sure, but he told himself it that it didn't matter. He couldn't let one measly break up control his life anymore.

Impulsively, Trent yanked the door open and went down the steps of the building. He tried to smile brightly at the people rushing past him to get to their apartments, but they took one look at him and scurried away.

He caught a sight of his face on one of the mirrored walls in the lobby.

Well. He looked terrible, which wasn't really a surprise, but he hadn't expected himself to look _this _awful. He had grown a full beard. His clothes were rumpled and stained. He carried the scent of alcohol like perfume. In simpler terms, he looked like a hobo. No wonder people were steering clear of him.

He grimaced, running a hand through his greasy hair. Well, at least the hooking-up problem was taken care of. No girl would want to touch him without a twenty-foot pole.

He shoved his hands in his pockets and was about to leave the place when the doorman stopped him. Trent didn't recognize him, actually. Last time he went downstairs, the doorman was some grumpy old guy with a full beard and sideburns. This one was looked friendly and was younger, around fifty. Apparently, he hadn't been outside his flat for a long, long time.

"Are you Trent? From apartment 9?" the doorman said, scrutinizing his crumbly appearance.

"Yeah?"

"This is for you...son." He reached into one of the boxes littered outside the building and handed him a thick brown envelope.

It was blank, no return address or even a name. Trent raised his eyebrows. "Who sent this?"

The doorman shrugged. "Some kid. He was about your age, and he handed me that package a few days ago. I buzzed you a few times but you never answered. I was just about ready to head to your place and deliver it to you personally."

"Oh," the musician replied shortly. "Okay, thanks."

"No problem."

Trent sighed and took the envelope back to his apartment, glad that he had an excuse to _not _go out. He set the envelope down on the kitchen table, grabbed a beer from the fridge, and sat down, ready to read the contents of the thing. It was probably from his mom or something.

He took a huge gulp of beer and opened the envelope. Inside was another envelope, a smaller one. There was a note that was duct-taped to it. Trent pulled it off and began to read.

_Trent,_

_Hey. Look, I'm really sorry for how things ended. You and I had a good thing going...too bad it just didn't work out. You're a great guy, don't ever forget that. And I hope that sending this to you would finally seal everything up. I'm sorry I haven't been keeping in touch, okay? I just thought that it would be too awkward. And we're okay, right? It doesn't even matter anymore. But I really hope that we can stay friends. You're a really fun guy and I love your songs. I'll never forget the pizzas we shoved into our mouths and the lame horror movies we watched together. Trent, it's time to move on._

_Gwen. _

Trent felt like his throat was covered in sandpaper. He glanced at the smaller envelope. It was black, lined with silver. Hands trembling, he pulled out a sheet of black paper. In silver ink and some fancy font it read, You_ are cordially invited to Gwen and Duncan's wedding..._

Time froze. So did Trent.

Gwen and Duncan were getting married. What the fuck kind of peace offering was this? If Gwen thought that it would 'seal everything up,' she was wrong. Dead wrong.

Trent glanced at the can of beer and took a swig. He reached for his other guitar from the wall and suddenly recoiled. It was the guitar Gwen gave him for his nineteenth birthday.

He sat still, his arm outstretched, frozen in midair. Then he dropped it heavily to his side and took another gulp of beer. The musician slammed his head down the table.

That was when the tears came. They rolled down his rough cheeks, down to his unkempt beard and finally on the wedding invitation.

No. Not this again.

He was just so..._tired. _He couldn't bear this.

He rested his head on the table, his sobs fading as sleep took control. He stayed like that until the sun seeped through the blinds and he was forced to open his eyes to face a new day.

Fuck the universe.

Trent sighed and headed to his room. It was time to play the guitar again. He walked away without looking back to the tear-stained invitation on the table.

He didn't like it, but it was time to move on.

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**So...how was it? Thanks for reading and please review. :)**


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